The Prodigal Son
by Jedi-Princess-Solo
Summary: The duel on Mufustar ended differently, and several years down the road the ripples of that day are finally becoming visible... post RotS AU
1. Chapter 1

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Never cease loving a person, and never give up hope for him, for even the prodigal son who had fallen most low, could still be saved; the bitterest enemy and also he who was your friend could again be your friend; love that has grown cold can kindle again. -Sören Kierkegaard_

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Another day.

Time passed inexplicably in the barren sands of Tatooine.

Day stretched on endlessly under the scorching fire of the twin suns high overhead, and the chill that fell with the dark canvas across the night sky lingered long after the first rays of sunlight began to peek over the rocky mesas in the morning.

A world of extremes, and of extreme danger.

The danger went beyond the krayt dragons and the Sand People, it was part of the planet itself, deeply ingrained in every bit of sand and rock.

By day, the endless sea of coarse sand was broiling and scalding, but once the twin suns fell, the desert world took on a frigid atmosphere, harsh winds howling outside every door. With air as dry and bitter as the sand underfoot, acrid and completely parched, it seemed an inhospitable place at first glance, yet there was life among the scorched sands.

Those who called Tatooine home were of a solid mold, rough and battered, but strong in both body and spirit. It was a necessity, that strength, when you lived in a world that was constantly trying to kill you.

Yoda had voiced some reservations about sending the boy off to grow up in such a harsh place, but it was the right place for young Luke.

Owen and Beru were good people, the closest thing he had to family, and they would raise him well.

And if Anakin had survived this place, as a slave no less, so could his son.

There were days, however, when Obi-Wan Kenobi wondered if he himself could survive a lifetime in this desolate wasteland, and just who would guide Luke to his fated path if he were to simply collapse in the sand.

He was beginning to hate sand as much as his former Padawan had.

Once, a lifetime ago after a particularly stressful incident with said Padawan, then a twelve year-old bundle of terror, he had vowed that as soon as the boy ascended to Knighthood, he was going to take a long vacation on some remote desert world.

The Force, it seemed, had a taste for irony.

After three long years in the barren, desolate wastelands of Tatooine, the twin suns scorching everything their rays could touch, Obi-Wan Kenobi would have given anything to see water again. He wasn't picky, it wouldn't have had to be the fathomless oceans of Mon Calamari, where water went as far as the eye could see, or even the majestic waterfalls of Naboo.

Water, of any kind, would have been a sight for sore eyes.

But of course, that was only a dream, wishful thinking that was the product of an old man's longing. Water, like so many other precious things that he had taken for granted, was out of his reach now.

In the distance, a krayt dragon was calling for its mate.

Obi-Wan picked up his pace a little, drawing his dusty robe closer around his frame as he continued his weary trek back from his nightly vigil on the edge of the Lars homestead.

It bothered Owen for him to be on Tatooine at all, but Anakin's stepbrother couldn't deny that having a Jedi Master- albeit an exiled failure of one- nearby was invaluable when raising a Force-sensitive child, especially one as strong in the Force as Luke.

Sometimes Obi-Wan wondered how Shmi had managed all those years with Anakin.

He'd never met the woman, of course, he'd only ever been to Tatooine with Qui-Gon that once and had remained with the ship while his Master ventured into Mos Espa, but he felt a kinship with her just the same. They had both tried a hand at raising her son, after all, though it was inarguable that she had faired better.

That day when he'd first arrived at the Lars homestead to give Luke into the care of his uncle and aunt, Obi-Wan had stopped at Shmi's grave for a moment, strangely compelled to offer up some form of apology.

She had trusted the Jedi to protect her son, to guide him down the right path, and he hadn't been able to do so.

The guilt would most likely haunt him until the day he died.

And so he kept watch over Anakin's son in his former Padawan's stead, keeping his distance as per Owen's demands, but always alert for any possible threat to young Luke.

He would live out the rest of his days doing so.

The fate of the galaxy depended on Luke and his sister growing up to fulfill their destinies, they were the last hope of the light and as such needed to be safeguarded above all else. It was for this reason that Obi-Wan resigned himself to slowly wasting away in the desert hovel he called a home.

And, if he was honest with himself, it was for Anakin and Padmé, as well.

He owed them that much, at least.

How had things gone so wrong, so fast?

Part of him understood Anakin's betrayal, though he could not admit that anyone, himself least of all.

Anakin had always been a gifted seer, the Force flowed through his veins so strongly that the future often literally unfolded itself before his eyes, in the form of dreams.

How many nights during their years together had Obi-Wan been awoken by a whimper from the other room, how many times had he soothed a little boy's fears and assured him that dreams were just that, that they held no real power?

_Oh, Anakin,_ he thought for what seemed the millionth time. _I'm sorry._

Some dreams, it turned out, were living nightmares.

Before their parting, Yoda had absolved him of any responsibility for Anakin's fall from grace, but Obi-Wan could not accept the words, even as the logical part of him knew them to be true. He had made too many mistakes with Anakin over the years, failed to be all that his Padawan needed, and he could not help lying awake at night while the angry desert winds howled outside his hovel door, wondering how one little change here or there over the years might have made a difference.

Above all, he blamed himself for not teaching Anakin to accept loss.

When Siri Tachi had been killed at Azure, it had been a devastating blow for Obi-Wan. He'd loved her since boyhood, albeit in silence, but he had been able to accept her passing and move on, due largely in part to the lessons that Qui-Gon Jinn had taught him during his apprenticeship.

If only he had shared those same lessons with Anakin, then his friend might have been able to come to terms with his wife's imminent death.

And the twins would not have needed to lose both parents.

_How did it come to this?_ Obi-Wan wondered, finding it difficult to breathe for more reasons than just the exhausting hike across the desert. _Why did the Force allow this to happen, Master?_

If Qui-Gon was listening, he didn't answer.

It seemed his Master was as finicky in death as he had been in life.

Sighing, Obi-Wan bowed his head, hoping to keep some of the sand from getting in his eyes. Even after three years, sometimes he still wondered if he was really hearing Qui-Gon's voice speaking to him, or if he'd just finally lost the fragile grip on his sanity and gone mad.

After Mufustar, he nearly had.

Memories of that day three years ago, of the betrayal and pain, were as fearsome now as they had been the morning after, when he awoke from dreams only to keel over on the floor retching and sobbing all at once.

For the most part, Obi-Wan did not allow himself to think on it. He had closed off the incident in his mind, imprisoning it behind a solid fortress of durasteel, so that he would not have to relive the hell he had been forced to endure that day, so he would not have to remember the burning hatred in his beloved Padawan's eyes.

But, as they had been for Anakin, dreams were often his enemy.

In slumber, he was vulnerable to the past, it reared its ugly head like some ferocious beast, ravenous in its hunger, relentless in its fury.

Most mornings, Obi-Wan awoke in a cold sweat.

He didn't know what hurt worse to remember, knowing that Anakin had been willing to kill him, or the knowledge that he himself had been prepared to kill Anakin.

In that instant, the bond had been severed beyond repair.

_"It's a bad idea to split up the team."_

Anakin had been right that day on the landing pad, as he saw Obi-Wan off on his mission to Utapau to hunt down General Grievous. By separating him from his former Padawan, the Council had broken up the unbreakable team, had moved him out of the way and right where the Sith wanted him.

Perhaps if he had only been there on Coruscant when Palpatine made his move...

_No,_ Obi-Wan told himself, cutting that train of thought short. _That way leads to madness._

What was done was done, the past could not be changed. There was no point wondering what might have been, what could have been done differently.

Choices had been made, and they would all have to live with them.

"Poor Luke," Obi-Wan murmured softly, his chest constricting at the thought of the boy who was both motherless and fatherless.

Poor Leia, as well, for though she would know love in the House of Organa, something would always be missing in her life, in her heart, and, having inherited her father's Force-sensitivity just as her brother had, she would always be aware that something was lacking, even if she didn't know what.

Just as Obi-Wan himself would always be lacking now.

Events on Mufustar had irrevocably shattered his heart, in ways that not even the massacre of the Temple and the destruction of the Order had. He would never again be complete without Anakin.

And he would never forget his last glimpse of his Padawan.

_Anakin's lightsaber was heavy in his hand. _

"Obi-Wan...?"

He looked down.

Below him, Anakin scrabbled at the hot, black sand leading of the lava bank with his artificial hand, his only remaining limb, and the broiling sand burned away the glove covering his durasteel fingers. The more he struggled, the more his powerful grip caused the soft earth beneath him to crumble.

So many things rose to mind, so many accusations at the tip of his tongue.

This was the Chosen One, meant to destroy the Sith, not join them. To bring balance to the Force, not leave it in darkness. This was the Hero Without Fear, the Jedi Order's greatest warrior.

This was Anakin Skywalker; his student, friend, son and brother.

His betrayer.

Flames licked the fringes of Anakin's robes, and his long hair was beginning to blacken and char at the ends.

Still, Obi-Wan did not move.

In his left hand he held the hilt of Anakin's lightsaber, and in his right his own.

Strange that he'd never noticed how similar they were in design. Anakin had based his first lightsaber, lost years ago, after Obi-Wan's own design, and he'd stuck to the general pattern over the years when it came time to reconstruct new weapons.

"Obi-Wan!"

The desperation in Anakin's voice stirred something within him, and at last Obi-Wan shook aside his frozen stillness, focusing intently on the young man clinging to his handhold in the burning black sands.

Again he saw the bodies in the Temple, the walls stained with blood.

The archives footage of the younglings slaughter.

Clenching his fingers around both lightsaber hilts, so tightly that his knuckles went white, Obi-Wan began the careful, deliberate descent down to the black beach with one purpose in mind.

In the end, though, it had been impossible.

Standing over the broken, crippled young man whose flesh was burned and smoking, Obi-Wan had not seen the Betrayer, the monster who had so ruthlessly murdered the younglings who thought he was their hero come to rescue them, who had destroyed everything and everyone that Obi-Wan had ever held dear.

Instead, he'd seen little Ani.

The boy that Qui-Gon had bequeathed to his care, young and innocent, vulnerable and desperate for the love and acceptance of his teacher.

And he'd realized, in that instant, that he could never kill his Padawan.

Maim and injure, yes, he could do that if necessary, if Anakin drove him to it and left him no other choice. But kill the boy he'd raised, the man who was equal parts son and brother?

Even then, with all the blood on Anakin's hands, Obi-Wan still loved him too fiercely.

And by loving him, he had doomed the galaxy.

He'd stumbled more than once, his knees burned through the fabric of his leggings when Anakin's added weight caused him to fall into the broiling sand but he'd managed to pull Anakin away from the river of lava.

There hadn't been time to think about what would come next, what consequences his actions would have for the rest of the galaxy.

All he'd had time to do was clip the lightsabers at his belt and struggle to get a grip on his former Padawan, whose pained grunts and hisses through gritted teeth were as hard to bear as the searing heat rising up from the sand beneath his feet.

They had just reached the top of the cliff when Obi-Wan sensed it.

A dark presence swooping over Mufustar, like a black veil dropping above, and he'd known at once what it was.

Palpatine had arrived on Mufustar.

And Obi-Wan had been forced to make the most difficult decision of his life.

Stay, refusing to give up on Anakin, refusing to let the Sith have him. Or run, getting the injured Padmé away while there was still time, so that he could find medical help for her and the unborn child she carried.

Anakin's child.

In the end, there was only one choice he could make.

Anakin had been gravely injured during their fight, and badly burned on the lava bank, and then there was still his newfound allegiance to consider.

What guarantee was there that Anakin wouldn't have turned on him once more?

With Palpatine fast approaching, Obi-Wan had known that he could not get back to the ship in time if he was struggling with Anakin's weight.

_"May the Force be with you," he rasped as Anakin lay panting at his feet._

Then he'd turned and begun to walk away.

_"Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan!"_

Anakin's hoarse shouts had echoed in his ears, full of betrayal and outrage, cracking with pain.

_"Don't you leave me! Obi-Wan! I hate you!"_

Unable to bear it, Obi-Wan had broken into a run, and soon Anakin's cries had faded, but the terrible weight in his heart did not, and it only grew worse in the hours that followed.

Padmé had succumbed to death just moments after birthing Anakin's children, and her last words had been of love and faith in Anakin. Luke and Leia, she'd named the twins, revealing that Anakin had chosen the name for their daughter. It was risky to allow the girl to keep it, but Obi-Wan could not bring himself to undo Padmé's last gift to her child.

Then the body had been prepared to be sent back to Naboo for burial, and the children spirited away in secrecy.

As far an anyone in the Empire knew, the Skywalker line was dead.

Precautions had been taken to ensure that Padmé's body would still appear pregnant, that all records of the birth of the twins were concealed, and then they had waited.

For Obi-Wan's worst fear had come true, and Anakin Skywalker survived.

But in a sense, he hadn't.

Palpatine had put the broken man into a bacta tank at once for the burns, skin grafts had been employed, artificial limbs affixed in place of the ones Obi-Wan had taken from him. There had been lung damage, but not severe, and a weeklong healing trance would have done the trick.

Upon awakening, Anakin had learned of his wife's demise.

In that moment, Darth Vader was truly born and though the body of Anakin Skywalker lived on, there was no longer anything of him left inside.

Obi-Wan had gotten a glimpse or two of him on the HoloNet while in Mos Espa, and despite the black mask that Anakin now wore- to conceal his identity or simply make him seem less human, he didn't know- he had known his former Padawan anywhere.

And he'd known in that moment that it would have been far better for the galaxy if he'd left the boy to die.

_"Mercy, you gave him,"_ Yoda had pronounced after hearing Obi-Wan's tale. _"A noble act, compassion is. Feel shame for it, you should not."_

And that was the end of the matter, at least as far as the diminutive Jedi Master was concerned.

For Obi-Wan, the guilt was a little more sticking.

Wincing, he shielded his eyes as the harsh wind blew sand across his cheek, stinging the skin. His hovel was just over the next sand dune, for which he was infinitely grateful- he wasn't cut out for this weather, or this world.

All of Anakin's complaints about how terrible a planet his homeworld was were now justified in Obi-Wan's eyes.

He made his way down the sloping bank of the sand dune and across the flat stretch of sand that led to the sandy little hilltop he'd chosen to construct his dwelling upon. It was, essentially, just a single large room with whitewash walls, divided into separate sections by square, stone pillars, a far cry from his rooms at the Temple, but it would serve his purposes.

Just as he was about to enter his home, he paused, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

A muted, but turbulent presence seeped into his perceptions like a slow flood of water spilling over rocks, and before he could think, Obi-Wan was whirling around, his hand going to the lightsaber hilt hidden under his dusty robe.

The black-cloaked figure stumbled towards him, like an injured bantha cub.

Obi-Wan's thumb hovered over the ignition button.

Seemingly too weak to continue, the mysterious stranger staggered forward, falling into the sand, and lay still.

After a long moment, Obi-Wan cautiously started forward, bringing his lightsaber out into the open as he approached the fallen man.

As he drew close, the cloaked figure shuddered, struggling to push himself up again, and then his head lifted and the strong winds which had been blowing coarse sand across Obi-Wan's face all afternoon tugged away the dark hood from the man's head.

Obi-Wan nearly dropped his lightsaber.

"Master," the fallen man rasped, eyes dull and bleak. "Help me."

His chest so tight it was about to burst, heart frozen with disbelief, Obi-Wan could not bring himself to speak, he couldn't even manage to breathe, and when the young man before him crumpled to the ground in a heap, eyes rolling up in their sockets, he could seem to move.

All he could do was stare down at the unconscious form of Anakin Skywalker in shock.


	2. Chapter 2

The shadows were alive.

Gloom was heavy in the air, misting smoke and thick haze spiraling down from the black skies overhead.

Monstrous storm clouds churned ravenously, black and rumbling with fury that blocked out all warmth and light from the sun. The air was cold, like a breath of ice down his neck, with harsh winds whipping at everything in their path.

And in the distance, he could hear the screams.

He closed his eyes, furiously trying to keep out the nightmare around him.

The searing heat of the fire scorched his exposed skin, singing his face, as the flames licked at his boots, hungrily reaching upward toward the edge of his robes as the heat began to rise up his legs.

A blast of hot wind hit his face and he winced, cautiously opening his eyes.

The boiling surface radiated scalding hot air around him in shimmering waves, each brush of air ripping at his cheeks like vibroblades. Through the shimmering veil of the sizzling air, he could make out blackened outcroppings eroded by the torrid heat in the distance, with intricate veins of molten lava running across the rocky terrain of the scorched wasteland.

For a moment, he was lost.

This was not the place he had expected to be, and yet he knew it well.

He had been here once, a lifetime ago, and has been here ever since, trapped within walls of molten rock and drowning in a sea of magma that burns his skin from his bones even as it drags him deeper under the surface.

This is hell.

As if on cue, the shadows begin to dance.

He can feel them, just on the other side of the thin black veil dividing them, drawing closer around him. He can hear them whispering, feel their phantom fingers reaching out for him.

They want to bury him alive.

He began to back away, stumbling blindly over the melted ground, barely sidestepping an erupting steam geyser, but the shadows refused to be left behind.

They pressed in on him, icy hands grabbing at the edges of his clothing. He tried to shake them off, but there were too many of them, and he could only scream as they crawled over him, tightening their grip, making him their prisoner.

After a moment, he could no longer even scream.

The shadows were covering his mouth now, and his nose, and he could not breathe.

They meant to kill him, making it a long struggle into death.

It was only fitting, they whispered in his ear.

He had done it to them.

Struggling is useless, but he continues to do it just the same. It makes him grow weaker, though, and they seem to gain strength from each breath that is stolen from him.

His vision begins to swim, and he gives one last weak tug of his arm.

The shadows in front of him still, and a single wisp stretches outward from the darkness, taking on form and shape as it approaches him.

His heart skips a beat at the familiar face.

Qui-Gon Jinn has been dead almost two decades, and yet his visage has not changed. He is still the man that freed him, that fought for him to have a place at the Temple.

Save for the gaping hole in his stomach.

_You must use the Force for good, Anakin._

The memory of that ghostly whisper, which had halted his murderous fury on Prestilyn, rose unbidden, flooding him with the shame and confusion of that day.

As suddenly as he had appeared, Qui-Gon began to fade.

He tried to cry out to him but his mouth was covered, he tried to reach for him but all he touched was smoke and shadow, and the long-dead Jedi Master disappeared.

Another soon took his place, though.

A headless Count Dooku reaching toward him with severed arms, flailing handless limbs in his direction. On the ground rolled his head, and when it came to a halt, lifeless eyes stared up at him, forever frozen in a silent plea for mercy that he had been denied.

Jerking in the shadows' grip, he tried to look away, but the shadows force him to watch.

Dooku's head is missing, and the headless body vanishes before his eyes, but he feels no relief, for he knows now that what is coming next will be worse.

And worse and worse.

Until he can no longer bear it, until he is driven mad by it all.

That is the shadows' goal, after all.

Mace Windu.

_Anakin, help me!_

Eyes dead and cold as stone, lips unmoving, simple staring through him with piercing intensity and an unspoken accusation that practically sings in the air.

Betrayer.

Then Mace is gone and is his place is a youngling, just a little thing, barely able to hold a lightsaber, staring up at him not with fear or confusion, but open adoration.

_Master Skywalker, what do we do?_

Even with the telltale burns of a hideous lightsaber wound visible across his chest, the little boy does not understand that it wasn't salvation that walked into the room, but damnation.

He does not realize that his hero is also his murderer.

More younglings appear, and Jedi young and old that met their doom at the hands of one they trusted, one they called a brother in the Force.

Wise Shaak Tii.

Young Whie.

Gentle Bant.

One by one they emerge from the wall of shadow, and with each new apparition he feels as if he has been stabbed, as if their appearance is slowly, and painfully, killing him for his sins.

Nute Gunray, as oblivious to what was happening as the other Separatists killed that day.

As powerless to stop it as the hundreds of others he has murdered since.

And suddenly his victims are driven away by the presence of an angel.

Young, graceful, every bit the queen that she had once been, she wears her funeral gown, hair adorned with Naboo lilies, and in one hand she clutches a jappor snippet, while the other hand clutches her swollen stomach.

_Anakin, you're breaking my heart..._

He sobs within himself, fighting furiously to break free of the shadows' grasp now, to escape so he does not have to see, so he does not have to look at her.

She is pale, deathly so, and when she reaches out a hand to touch his face it is like ice, causing a deep, soul-wrenching shudder to rise from his center. Her lips are blue and as they draw closer to his own, he feels ill, knowing they will be just as cold as her porcelain skin.

_No, Anakin, I'm sorry! I'm sorry... I love you..._

Just when he thinks she will kiss him and he will die from the anguish of that kiss, she draws away, an unpleasant smile that does not fit her tugging at her lips.

She pulls the hand touching her abdomen up for him to see, and he nearly retches.

It is stained with blood.

Unlike the others, she does not fade when the next specter appears.

Instead, she steps aside to reveal a small child.

Their child.

Dark curls fall around a cherubic face and deep brandy eyes beam up at him as the little girl holds out her arms, silently asking to be picked up, to be held.

_With a kick that hard?_ his own voice rumbled in his ears, a different time, a different man. _Definitely a girl._

Suddenly he is aware that he can move again, that his body is no longer locked in the unforgiving prison of the shadows, and he takes a hesitant step toward the child, then glances up at the thing with his wife's face.

She gives him an encouraging smile, blue lips curving upward slightly.

And so he reaches down to the child, and his heart soars with relief when there is something solid beneath his fingers, when she does not disappear under his touch as she has every night in his dreams.

For a single moment, he remembers what joy was like.

And then the child's skin begins to melt.

He screams, but he is powerless to stop it, powerless to do anything but watch as flesh falls away from bone until all he holds is a skeleton, and then that, too, is lost to him as it becomes ash that vanishes into the wind.

He looks up at his wife, but, she, too, is gone, and he finally understands.

Everything he touches, he destroys.

He is a monster, inhuman, an abomination.

When the lava begins to rise, seeping up onto the rocky terrain from the rivers running through it, he does not move, he does not even blink.

He allows it to devour him, because that is his punishment.

He will burn forever.

But the shadows will not let go, they are not sated by his suffering, they want more.

He feels them closing in on him, but does not look up.

A cold, clammy hand comes to rest on his shoulder, an icy breath spills across the back of his neck, and suddenly he is being smothered, darkness pressing in around him, consuming him.

Panic sets in as the Shadow cackles, but he knows he cannot escape.

He is a prisoner, he is a servant.

A slave.

Death would be better, anything would be better than this fate, this eternal nightmare from which there is no waking, but he is the one who forged the shackles, who put them around his wrists, who sealed them shut.

To burn would be a far kinder fate.

The Shadow's gnarled fingers dig into his skin, fierce and possessive, and the hood falls away from the Shadow's head to reveal a gruesome face and a cavernous mouth full of razor teeth that drip with crimson blood.

His, Padmé's, their child's…

The Shadow has devoured them all.

And now the Shadow will finish it, destroying what is left of him, and as those ravenous fangs brush against his neck, he only wishes someone had ended it long ago, that death had claimed him in the place of all the others.

There is a piercing pain in his throat.

And suddenly his eyes snap open, desperate gaps of air are drawn from his chest as his body convulses, and he finds himself staring up at a sand colored ceiling.

A hand touches his forehead, and he jerks away, but he is too weak to move.

Then a face swims into view over him, and he realizes that it is not the Shadow who has him, he has not been captured after all.

Lips move, but he can't hear anything over the ringing in his ears and he is too dizzy, too feverish, to read what the man is saying. He tries to open his mouth, to speak, to say anything, but he is falling back into the warm bliss of oblivion.

As he sinks into darkness, the last thing Anakin Skywalker sees is the concerned face of Obi-Wan Kenobi hovering over him.

Then he rests, because he knows that Obi-Wan will keep the Shadow at bay.

He is safe now.


	3. Chapter 3

The hours crept by agonizingly slow.

It had been two days.

Two days since his last trek to the Lars homestead to get a glimpse of young Luke, two days since the unexpected appearance of the man that, for the past three years, had been dead to him.

Two days since the galaxy turned upside down.

For Obi-Wan Kenobi, it had been the longest two days of his entire life.

Standing in the rough doorway to the small, dusty room that served as his bedroom, he bit his lip, eyeing the sleeping form draped across the flimsy sleeping pallet under a thin blanket that Obi-Wan had picked up during one of his supply runs into Mos Eisiley over the years. 

This was, as his old Master had been fond of saying, quite a peculiar situation.

_Master, why do you not speak to me?_ Obi-Wan sent the thought out into the Force, desperate for guidance, for advice, for someone to talk this over with.

But, as he had been ever since Anakin's arrival, Qui-Gon was silent. 

Suspiciously so.

Obi-Wan had a feeling that his Master was purposely ignoring his calls, so that he would have to deal with this sudden turn of events on his own, and it wouldn't make a difference how many times he called for him.

Death had not made Qui-Gon Jinn any less stubborn.

And with his former Master refusing to be of any assistance, Obi-Wan had found himself helplessly sitting about his small hovel, patiently- and nervously- waiting for Anakin to regain consciousness.

It had taken him several minutes to shake off the utter shock of seeing his former apprentice, the man who had been both his son and brother and then his betrayer, stumble across the sand to collapse at his feet. So many emotions had risen up inside of him then, overwhelming and overpowering...

He had immediately begun to shout for Qui-Gon.

After a while of silence, it had become clear that his Master was not going to answer this time, and Obi-Wan had finally forced himself to look back down at the face of the unconscious man at his feet.

And he had sunk down into the sand beside his Padawan, weeping.

All at once, he'd felt like a Padawan again, lost and confused, in need of someone to guide him, someone to tell him what the kriff he was supposed to do.

Never had he felt so overcome with simultaneous grief, hope, fear and anxiety. 

When Anakin did not awaken as he shook the younger man's shoulder, Obi-Wan had been alarmed to realize the younger man was entirely too warm, his skin was flushed and hot to the touch, and his eyes had been rolled up in the back of his head.

Shock, most likely, given the circumstances.

A tentative probe with the Force had indicated that, while he was clearly in psychological distress, there didn't seem to be any physically wrong with Anakin over than exhaustion and a few broken bones, and some damage to his prosthetic limbs.

But after two days of drifting in and out of half-lucid consciousness, Anakin still had not come around, and Obi-Wan was growing concerned. The boy was feverish and, if the incoherent murmurs escaping his lips during his restless sleep were any indication, delirious, as well.

Clearly, something drastic had happened to send Anakin into such a state of disarray. 

Much less to send him crawling back to Obi-Wan's side.

_"I hate you!"_

Even now, he could not forget the look on Anakin's face that day, the wild fury, the burning hatred that gave his eyes an unnatural glow, the malice twisting his lips into a snarl.

At that moment, Anakin had hated him, wholly and completely, every failure and injury between them over the fourteen years they'd shared surfacing with an emotional storm that could not be contained. Anakin would have killed him then, had the Force been less kind, and he would have done so without so much as a blink of the eye.

He had not been in the right state of mind on Mufustar, the psychotic madness that had overtaken him had been the work of a master dejarik player, carefully planned and plotted over the span of a decade.

Palpatine had done quite the number on the boy.

And yet, here they were.

Three years since the burning of the Temple, since the onslaught of the Purges, since the galaxy had turned on its side and father and son, brothers in all but blood, drew arms against one another.

The Jedi were all but extinct, only a handful of them had survived and those who had were in hiding, constantly fearing for their lives. The Republic had fallen and a terrible Empire had risen in its place, and the galaxy suffered under the Sith's rule.

And Obi-Wan had gone into exile, full of shame, bearing in his heart the price of his failure. 

Never had he expected to look upon his old Padawan again, lest it be the moment before his execution. He had been certain that the Force would keep him hidden, that Anakin would never find him here on Tatooine.

The one place Anakin had vowed to never return to.

Yet somehow Anakin had known where to find him, and the younger man had sought him out, apparently not to kill him but to seek his help.

Appearances could be deceiving, however.

After all, this was still the man who had betrayed the Order, who'd turned his back on years of friendship and brotherhood, who had ushered in an era of darkness when he was supposed to be a herald of the light.

Anakin Skywalker had been a Jedi, and a great Jedi at that.

But Darth Vader was a Sith, a mantle willing chosen and well-earned.

Which man was it that had stumbled to Obi-Wan's doorstep in such a state, who now rested in his bed?

Obi-Wan didn't know, and that worried him. 

The man he'd carried into his home two days prior looked like Anakin Skywalker, the eyes were clear again, his presence free of shadow, but then again the dark side was a powerful foe, there was no limit to its treachery.

Was the darkness tricking him now? 

Letting him see what he wanted to see, giving him false hope, only to lead him into a fatal trap?

The Anakin he knew, the boy he'd raised and trained and spent years fighting alongside, wasn't particularly fond of tricks, he preferred direct confrontation, open warfare and head-on battles. He had the mental shrewdness, not to mention the cunning nature, to set such a trap, but he'd seldom chosen to go that route.

But a lot had happened in three years time.

Anakin had changed, he was not the boy that Obi-Wan remembered.

Obi-Wan wasn't the man he'd been then, either.

Still, he liked to think that he could still read his former Padawan, that the bond between them had not been completely shattered by the events leading up to Mufustar.

He wanted to believe that Anakin had come here of his own free will, for no ulterior motive or purpose, simply because he needed help and knew that if anyone could- and would- help him, it would be the man who had dedicated a good half of his life to the boy's care and happiness.

It would kill him if it was all just a ploy, just another betrayal in an attempt to end his life, but he could not deny the likelihood of such a thing.

And then there was the nagging question of how Anakin had found him.

What if he'd discovered Luke's existence? What if it had not been Obi-Wan that led the young Jedi turned Sith back to Tatooine, but rather the luminescent presence of his three year old son?

Wouldn't Anakin have gone for Luke first, to ensure his son did not slip from his grasp?

Or, by some wondrous miracle of the Force, did Anakin still remain oblivious to the fact that his unborn child- his unborn _children_- had not perished with their mother that dreadful day on Polis Massa?

There was no way of knowing the answers to any of these questions until Anakin regained consciousness, and Obi-Wan was not in any hurry for that to happen. 

Still... there was no mistaking the desperation in Anakin's eyes when he fell before him in the sand.

If the boy's plea for help, gasped just before he collapsed, was indeed sincere, then what might have driven him to such a dramatic reversal, what had caused him to crumble into the broken wretch of a man that had crawled across the sand like a dying bantha?

Anakin had awoken once the first night, wild-eyed and panicked, clearly terrified, but a soothing brush with the Force had eased him back into slumber, and he had not woken again that night, despite the evident turmoil in his sleep.

_What has Palpatine done to you?_ Obi-Wan wondered, unable to smother out the sadness and pity that rose within him as he gazed at the still form sprawled across the sleeping pallet.

No matter what evils he had committed, Anakin was still the boy he'd raised, and Obi-Wan still loved him. 

The real question, then, was whether or not he could trust this second chance, this seeming miracle from the Force.

Turning away from the sleeping quarters, Obi-Wan let the curtain affixed to hang from the doorway fall back down into place, effectively separating him from his sleeping Padawan-enemy.

Moving back out into the large room that served as both kitchen, living area and work space, all divided by square, stone pillars and whitewash walls, he slowly lowered himself down onto the cushioned bench, his knees creaking in protest.

Age caught up with a man much quicker on Tatooine than it did on Coruscant.

_"What know you of old, hmmm?"_

Despite himself, Obi-Wan almost smiled at the memory of Yoda, able to imagine the diminutive Jedi Master there in front of him, gimmer stick ready to tap him in the shin in reprimand.

The almost-smile quickly became a deep frown, however.

He should contact Yoda.

The former Grand Master of the Jedi Order might have some insight into the situation, and he certainly should be notified that Darth Vader, the Sith Lord who had brought the Order to its knees and continued to hunt the surviving Jedi, had ended up on his doorstep.

Even without the mask that Vader usually wore, Yoda would still see Vader.

_"The boy you trained, gone he is."_

Again, Obi-Wan glanced back toward the bedroom, eyes boring through the curtain, seeing the sleeping form of his former Padawan in his mind's eye.

_"Master, help me..."_

The subspace transmitter, safely hidden for use only in an emergency, taunted him.

He should contact Yoda, this was precisely the kind of matter that the wizened Jedi Master had requested Bail Organa equip them both with transmitters for in the first place.

It was the right thing to do, after all.

His duty.

_"Duty and rules and regulations... that's all that matters to you, Obi-Wan. What about people? What about me?"_

Obi-Wan sighed.

Anakin had been right that day on Grejiia so long ago, he did put his duty first, even above his own Padawan. In his heart, Anakin had always been the most important thing in the galaxy, but in practice... well, as Siri Tachi had once commented, he was always the model Jedi. 

Siri, though, she had been anything but- a Jedi cut from her own mold, much like Anakin.

He knew what Siri would have done in his place, and he suspected he knew what Qui-Gon might have done, as well.

The only thing he didn't know was what Obi-Wan Kenobi would do.

And so he sat, watching the curtain behind which a Jedi turned Sith, friend turned enemy, son turned betrayer, drifted in unconsciousness.

Obi-Wan waited.

But for what he wasn't sure; for Anakin to awaken, for the Force to offer some mystical guidance, for Qui-Gon to break his silence and simply speak to him?

Perhaps all of those things, and perhaps none. 

Perhaps he was simply waiting for something, anything, to change.

Because change was coming, he could feel it in his bones, in the air around him and the earth beneath his feet. The Force was tingling, ready to move, ready to shift, ready to act. 

Anakin's arrival would have a profound affect on the galaxy, that much he was certain of.

Not even the Force knew how far-reaching those affects might be, to what extent the galaxy, and maybe even the Force itself, would change before the end.

As always, Anakin was the shatterpoint, the center piece on the dejarik board.

What role the Force had in mind for him in the coming days, Obi-Wan was not sure, but he knew, as he'd known deep in his heart from the very moment he first shook hands with the boy on Queen Amidala's spaceship as they left Tatooine, that his fate was intimately and forever intertwined with that of Anakin Skywalker. 

_Are we to kill or be killed, Anakin?_ Obi-Wan wondered grimly, his heart aching with so many bittersweet regrets and old pains.

Was that why the Force had brought them together?

So that they could have a rematch of their tragic, fated duel on Mufustar? So Sith and Jedi could battle unto the end, where one or both fell at the other's blade?

Was that the meaning of balance? No Jedi and no Sith?

Or was there some far greater, and infinitely more kind, plan at work here?

Only time would tell, once Anakin awoke.

And so Obi-Wan sat quietly, trying to meditate, reaching for a center of inner balance that he had not achieved in many years, not since Mufustar, not since the onslaught of the Purges and Order 66, not since he'd learned the terrible truth that his Padawan had not died defending the Temple but rather helped bring it to the ground.

And he waited.


End file.
